e Statue of Henri Quatre-His Birth-A Vision of his Life-Rochelle-St. Bartholemew-I

es cut out from Weymouth, Bath, or Cheltenham. You see in an instant the insular cut of the groups, who go laughing and talking the familiar vernacular along the rough pavé. There is a tall, muscular hoble-de-hoy, with red hair, high shirt collar, and a lady on each arm-fresh-looking damsels, with flounces, which smack unmistakeably of England. It is a young gentleman with his sisters. Next come a couple of wonderful

ir, for myself, I'd never like to go further from Pall Mall than just down Whitehall, to set my watch by the Horse Guards' clock; but the women, you k

lats, and import their own sherry; pass half their time studying Galignani, and reading to each other long epistles of news and chat from England-the majors and other old boys clustering together

en enjoy here all the luxuries of England. They have

had quite thrown the English reputation for wealth into the shade. His equipages, his parties, the countess's diamonds, had overblazed the grandeur of the English all put together; and the way in which he spent money enraptured the good folks of t

ie de guineés, c'est bonne; mais le plui

g with milk and honey. Further on, sluggish round-backed hills heave up their green masses, clustered all over with box-wood; and then come-cutting with many a pointed peak and jagged sierra-the bright blue sky-the glorious screen of the Pyrenees. From the end of the Place, which runs to the ridge of the bank on which stands the town, you may gaze at it for hours-the hills towering in peak and pinnacl

OF HENR

o proclaimed the edict of Nantes; the frank, gallant, and blithsome expression of the whole face-what does it tell of-of the gallant, whose mingled sagacity and debonnair courage won La Reine Margot from the intrigues of Catherine; whose impulsive heart and fiery passions cast him at the feet of Gabrielle d'Estrees; and whose weakness-manly while unmanly-made him for a time the slave of Henriette d'Entragues. There is an encyclop?dia of meaning in the face, and even in the figure, of Henri. He had a grand mind, with turbulent passions; he was deeply wise, yet frantically reckless; he had many faults, but few vices. If he gave up a religion for a throne, he never claimed to be a martyr or a saint. Indeed, he was the last man in the world deliberately to run his head against a wall. He thought that he could do more for the Huguenots by turning Catholic and King, than by remaining Protestant and Pretender; and he did it. Yet for all-for the men of Rome and the men of Geneva-he had a broad, genial, hearty sympathy. Were they not all French?-all the children of a king of Fran

of noble state-apartments, vaulted, oak-pannelled, with rich wooden carved work adorning cornice and ceiling, and we stand in the room in which Henri saw the light. Jeanne D'Albret's bed, a huge structure, massive and carven, and with ponderous silken curtains, still stands as it did at the birth of the king. And what a strange coming into the world that was. The Princess of Navarre had travelled a few days previously nearly across France, that the hoped-for son and heir might be a Bearnais born. Old Hen

i and the Condé head the group of generals who, bonnet in hand, surround the lady and the child; and then Jeanne D'Albret, lifting up her clear woman's voice, dedicates the little Henri to the Protestant cause in France; and with loud acclamations is the gift received, and the leader accepted by the stern Huguenot array.-The next picture. An antique room in the Louvre. The bell of St. Germain l'Auxerrois is pealing a loud alarm; arquebus shots ring through the streets, and cries and clamour of distress come maddening through the air.

-bearer fall, as fa

promise yet of a

his white plume shine

amme to day, the

ow, admits that "the king is a good sort of fellow enough, but that he has a jade of a mistress, who is continually wanting fine gowns and trumpery trinkets, which the people have to pay for;-not, indeed, that it would signify so much if she were but constant to her lover; but they did say that--." Here a lady, with burning cheeks, and flashing eyes, exclaims: "Sire, that fellow must be hanged forthwith!" "Sire!"-the boatman gazes in astonishment on his questioner. "Tut, tut," is the reply; "the poor fellow shall no longer pay corvée or gabelle, and so will he sing for the rest of his days, Vive Henri-Vive Gabrielle!"-Another scene: in the library and working room of the great king, and his great minister. The monarch shews a paper, signed with his name, to his counsellor. It is a pr